The cool metal of a blade hitting skin. The drawing of a blade across exposed, white flesh above a vein. The sharp intake of breath to hide the pain. Drops of blood turning into trails down the arm. Paper towels being blotted on skin to clear up the red liquid.
This was Dean Winchester's twice-weekly routine. Mondays and Thursdays every week, without fail, something triggered his need to hurt himself. Whether it be a hunt, something a monster said, or an intrusive thought, it was always Monday and Thursday. He didn't know why those two days. Maybe the moon and Thor had something against him. Maybe it was just a fluke. He didn't know.
On one particular Monday, Dean was hidden away in a far corner of the Bunker where nobody would find him, his small razor perched above his wrist. If anyone were to look closely enough, they would see dozens of criss-crossing scars across his left wrist, deftly covered by his thick-banded watch.
His watch was now discarded on the table in front of him. He had a roll of paper towels with him in case the bleeding got out of hand. Slowly, he dragged the blade from one side of his wrist to the other, right under the base of his palm. The blood flow this time around was quite pathetic, barely any coming to the surface. Nonetheless, he tore off a small sheet of paper towel to clean up what blood had floated to the surface wound.
He waited for the stinging sensation to disappear before he strapped with watch back onto his wrist. He adjusted it perfectly to cover his scars, and headed back out into the Bunker to find Sam and Castiel. They had cases to work that didn't need to be stalled by Dean's self-loathing and depression.
He found the duo in the library, huddled around Sam's laptop. Dean always wondered where Sam found wi-fi. This Bunker was much too old to have it installed, and none of the motels they stopped at had an access point.
Brushing it off, he approached the duo, sitting down across from them and just observing. They seemed to be looking into cases, as they were bouncing ideas off of each other. Dean picked out words like 'possible demon' and 'we have to check it out'.
"What do we have, boys?" Dean asked, finally speaking. He angled himself to try and view the laptop screen, but failed.
Luckily, Sam turned the screen towards him so he could see. "Possible demon attack in Port Huron, Michigan. Police report said the place smelt like sulphur, and the victim showed signs of a demon kill. Should we check it out?" he rambled on.
Dean nodded. "Gear up, boys. We're going to Michigan." he said. He put on a facade of cheerfulness and playfulness to hide what he had just done. He got up from the chair he was in and headed to grab his gear. So what? He'd made an NCIS reference. Big deal. He'd been watching the show on cable whenever possible. It was enthralling.
Sam and Castiel stood as well, preparing themselves. They made sure to grab weapons they would need, as well as holy water.
Once they were armed and prepared, they headed for Dean's precious Impala. Dean made a beeline for the driver's seat, even though he knew neither other man would take his favoured seat. Sam got into the shotgun seat and Castiel in the back.
The drive was silent, for the most part. At one point, Dean had to readjust his watch, not remembering to hide his wrist from Sam. Sam spotted all of the red, white, and healing scars dashed across his skin. When Dean realized what had happened, he quickly put his watch back onto his wrist.
The drive to Port Huron took 14 hours, and the hunt another good two days. The 14 hour drive back to the Bunker was as silent as the drive to Port Huron. Sam didn't want to bring up the scars, and Castiel had fallen asleep in the back seat. He got tired very easily in his human body, almost always sleeping after a case.
They stopped for food in a small town on the way back, Dean going in for burgers and salad, bringing them out to the Impala to eat on the drive. Castiel had woken up when he smelt the burgers, gladly taking one to eat.
Once they got back to the Bunker, Sam and Castiel went off to their separate rooms to sleep. It had been a long day, hell, a long two days.
Dean headed for his room as well, but not for sleep. He pulled an old, spiral-bound notebook out from under his bed and pulled his pen out of the spirals. This was his 'drafting notebook', where he kept all of the different suicide notes he'd written over the years. He had one from his teenage years, one from his early twenties, one from his late twenties, and the one he was going to write now, at 36. Something in him knew this would be the last one he would write.
His pen danced and scratched across the page, putting his innermost thoughts down on the lined white paper. He ink in his pen was purple, as it was one of Sam's, and Sam liked to colour code whatever notes he wrote.
He hid the notebook again and fell asleep.
It had been a month since the day of the drafting. Dean was depleting faster and faster. The cuts on his wrist were getting deeper and deeper, longer and longer. Soon, he would have to start wearing longer sleeves to hide his marks.
It was a relatively normal day when it happened. The Bunker was quiet, there were no cases to work. Dean was in his room, his blade balanced in his hand, weighing his options. His drafting notebook was open to his newest suicide note as he sat there. Today was the day. Today was the day he would die.
He placed his blade down on top of the note. If he was dying, it was going to be at the end of something much bigger than a razor blade. He picked up his silver dagger, one he used for demons. It was a good six inches long, with a thin blade. It would do perfectly for what he would need it for.
"I'm sorry, Sammy." escaped his lips. He drew the dagger across his neck, slicing his jugular vein and one of his corroded arteries. It was a quick death, blood spilling from his neck down his side and pooling on the bed. He was dead in a matter of moments as his major vein drained of his blood.
Sam was the one to find Dean's body. He'd been calling Dean down for food for a good half an hour, so he'd gone to his room to find him. He instead found the dead, emptied body of his older brother. He had to bite back tears as he called for Castiel to help him clean up. He found the suicide note, miraculously untouched by the blood, and picked it up.
Sam, Cas, I'd like to start off by saying I'm sorry. And Charlie, if you're reading this too, sorry. I know suicide is selfish, I know. But it was a means to an end. A means to end the horrible life I've been living since I was four years old.
I could go on about how awful Dad was when you weren't around, Sammy. However, all I'm going to say is that I have more scars than you'd think a Hunter would have. The extra ones are from Dad.
Take my watch off. Go ahead. You'll find a collection of my weakness spelled out. Scars all over the place, some deeper than others. Another selfish act, God am I selfish. I needed the pain to remind me I was alive, but it quickly became something more. A need, a craving for pain, for blood. The cuts became deeper and deeper as I got worse.
I'd like Cas to know something too. I loved you. Like a brother, maybe, but more as that best friend you're so close to you don't appear as platonic anymore. You were that best friend. Maybe I had fantasies about holding your stupid hand, but that's all gone now, like me.
I'm going to end this letter by saying this: Cas, Sam, Charlie, you've been the only real family I've had. My Mom died, my Dad was a douche who also died. I only had Sam for the longest time, and then along came Castiel, Charlie, and later, Kevin. But it was my fault Kevin died. I've held that guilt since the minute he was killed by Gadreel. I love you guys, from the bottom of my heart.
Goodbye, and have some great lives,
Your best friend and brother,
Dean Henry Winchester
Sam had gotten halfway through the words when tears started spilling down his cheeks, dotting the paper with tear stains. When he was done, he handed the notebook to Castiel so he could read. In a new experience, Castiel was crying as well. He'd never cried before, but here he was, crying over the loss of his best, and possibly only, friend.
"We.. we have to call Charlie." Sam choked out, eyes red from crying. Castiel nodded, placing the notebook on Dean's dresser.
Sam pulled out his phone and dialled Charlie's number. Well, Celeste's number, but she'd always be Charlie to the boys.
Charlie anwered after the third ring. "Hey, Sam. What's up?" she asked.
"Charlie, we, uh, need you at the Bunker." Sam said, trying not to cry or cause his voice to break.
"Alright?" Charlie said nervously. "I'll be there ASAP. I'm in Witchita on a hunt."
"See you soon, Charlie." Sam muttered. Both parties hung up the phone, Charlie heading for her car and Sam to Dean's side. He sat on the edge of his brother's bed, away from the pool of blood. He unfastened Dean's watch, revealing all of the scars he'd seen that day when they were driving back from Michigan. He was right, there were so many of them. Some older and healing, others still red and irritated, maybe from today or yesterday.
Charlie arrived not long after. Castiel had gone to meet her at the door. He was instructed not to say a word, just lead her to Sam. He did as instructed, Charlie getting more and more nervous with each step. Once they reached Dean's room and she saw the body, she started crying uncontrollably.
"No, no, nononono." she was muttering, approaching the body. She sat next to Sam, taking Dean's cold, dead hand in her own. She just wanted to feel his touch one last time, even if it was cold and dry. She leaned on Sam for support, the taller man wrapping an arm around her shoulders. They were both crying, crying over the loss of their older brother.
Three days later, they were returning to the Bunker after his funeral. This time, they had burnt the body in a proper Hunter funeral. They didn't want a demon to ride Dean after he was gone, it would just be wrong. The choice of a Hunter funeral made everything feel... final. Dean wasn't coming back this time. Even if he could, he wouldn't want to. He had chose to end his life. If he were to be brought back, what was to say he wouldn't do it again?
It had been over a year since Dean's death. Charlie had moved in with them at the Bunker, and Castiel didn't leave as often. They would never fill the void Dean had left in their hearts. It would always be there, yearning for their lost brother.
A lonely spirit floated by the door of the Bunker as the trio of Hunters sat at the long table in the entryway, planning out a case. He'd been watching over them for the last year, protecting them. They thought all of the ghostly signs were just the Bunker's age effecting everything.
The spirit was only there for one last visit. After today, he wasn't going to visit anymore. A year was long enough. He knew they'd never move on, but he was ready. He had to do it. He floated down to the table, patting each person on the head. They didn't notice him, nor acknowledge the cold. They just kept planning for their case.
He made himself visible for a split second, wanting Sam to see him one last time. Sam thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, so he just shook his head and went back to work.
The spirit of Dean Winchester disappeared, finally reaching the place it belonged; up in Heaven with his Mom, Bobby, Kevin, Jo, and Ellen. They welcomed him with open arms, taking him in.